Fairy Tale of London
by juliasejanus
Summary: Mid December Alex Rider finds himself back in Chelsea, unexpectedly after early completion of a mission. Jack is entertaining a houseful with her parents, her new fiancée and his two kids staying for the holidays. The fifteen year old is told to stay with Tom, but his friend is in Italy staying with Jerry. Sleeping rough, Alex stumbles over a botched kidnapping.
1. Chapter 1

Alex was stood staring at the firmly shut front door of his house, his home, as if willing it to open. Here he was pondering the garish wreath hung at a wonky angle on the door. No room for the returning hero was a bitter retort, it was not his fault the mission in Columbia had been wrapped up by the CIA by the time he got there. Three days travelling, starving hungry and he had been ordered to kip on Tom's floor. Ordered to find his own way without even getting a single word in edgeways to explain Tom was skiing with his brother as he needed to escape the horror of his mum's new boyfriend. The new couple were seriously sexed up as Tom had described walking in on the pair three times in the week before Alex had been called in by the Bank. No other old school friends would touch him with a barge pole now. He had been sent straight home from the airport as there was an internal audit situation at Liverpool Street.

With no obvious options, the teenage spy got the bus to the West End. First item on his agenda was to eat at Burger King, spending his last tenner on comfort food and then scope out Centre Point to hopefully get a bed at the Hostel for Homeless Teenagers.

As soon as the support worker mentioned protocol with underage teens was getting in contact with a Social Services, Alex stood up and left. The facts were damning. Fifteen, no school placement, no parents, no official guardian, history of running away, supposedly sofa surfing with friends and to crown it all, having stupidly given his real personal details. This was a nightmare that kept getting worse.

Now it was either a park bench or a squat, as he daren't explain to either Jack or Crawley his monumental gaff. He knew this area of London well from his early morning runs, having psssed over a dozen derelict buildings suitable as a squat to tide him over. For the foreseeable future this was the best option. The second problem was his phone was safe in the room probably now occupied by darling Henry's brats. No one could contact him, even if they were worried, which was highly unlikely. For the first time since leaving San Francisco he regretted leaving his foster family. There he would be preparing for a Christmas not facing survival 101. At least Ian, Special Forces training and Malagosto prepared him for such lows.

Along Oxford Street, there were rich pickings as he dipped pockets for enough readies to take advantage of the Christmas late night shopping to buy a sleeping bag, air mattress, pans, stove, rucksack and then finally to the last stop at Sainsburys for water and basic rations. Luckily he had enough decent clothes with him for several days. Tasks completed, the teenager walked south to Pimlico to case out his new home.

As he trudged along, his bad mood made other shoppers and revellers from numerous Christmas parties avoid him instinctively. Alex muttered darkly under his breath about saving everyone's bacon again and again, doing a shit job he had never wanted having been forced into it to protect someone he thought was a true friend; only to find himself surplus to requirements after she bagged the reward he deserved becoming independently wealthy. Where was his happy ever after? It had truly been the worst when he thought Jack had been murdered, but he was cruelly reminded she had already decided to leave. Two months of pretending to care after the demise of the Grimaldi's had been enough for Jack to ditch Alex again.

Young, trained and talented in all things illegal, the world was his to conquer. He owed no one nothing as playing the hero was a thankless task. Like a lightbulb moment, Alex realised his childhood, the thing he had fought so hard to desperately cling to, was over. At fifteen, he had both feet in the adult world and the realisation was utterly depressing. This was it, on his own.

...

Alex had briefly attended ballet lessons in this very building at the age of six; just before he and Ian had moved to Paris and he had been bribed with lies about more family time to take karate instead. The proper parenting routine with Ian had lasted two weeks. The building had been a social hall for the railway workers, then a dance studio, now it was just a boarded up derelict square of real estate awaiting conversion or demolition for more apartments as the board on the side said sale by auction. The windows on the ground floor were boarded over, but Alex knew how to pick the locks. The spy was in possession of the latest present from Smithers: a set of ceramic lock picks accompanied by a thin blade in a handy wrist sheath. The Yale lock and older standard lock were soon tackled. Upstairs was an office, kitchen and toilet under a north light roof. This was not the first tome Alex had broken in here. Two years ago he had brought Tom to scope the place after the last tenants left. In the basement, there was an access to the engineering sheds to the rear. It had been a blast to explore in the railway yard. Now, it was great knowing there was another exit, if he was disturbed. Musty, dusty but dry and out of the weather,Alex watched the rain hammer on the roof, as his exhaustion from travelling was not helping him sleep. He had seen no sign of any rats here, thankfully. It was dawn before he fell into an uneasy sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

Ian looked over the kitchen at Cheyne Walk, regretful of his failure as a parental figure and with a deep ache in his heart. There was no sign of Christmas in this house. The holiday had passed without presents or feasting. In an hour it was Boxing Day, the pair were travelling to Mexico on holiday. Jack had left two weeks ago to spend a month in America. Alex had been looking after himself in the mean time. The kitchen clean and tidy. No sign of anything out of the ordinary, as if an adult had been looking after the nine year old child living here. In truth Ian had been in undercover in Milan. The Alex who came downstairs was the not the child he expected, but grown up, looking exactly like John had the last time he had seen him: bruised, exhausted and haunted by his last mission.

The scene changed to a children's hospital ward. A blond baby asleep in a cot, finally over the ear infection that had caused a high fever and need for medical care. Ian sat beside his nephew, as his brother and wife had moved to France yesterday.

A grey haired man with emotionless face, grey suit and steel framed glasses, looking every inch a civil servant, came up to the bed. "My name is Blunt, Rider... Ian.. I have to inform you that the plane John and Helen hired has crashed into the Channel. You are Alex's guardian now. There are a few facts John neglected to tell you. Since his discharge from the army, your brother worked for me. He wasn't a mercenary, but a patriot. I've been watching you at Cambridge, Ian. You're a patriot like John. You need to be because Alex need a strong, resourceful guardian."

...

Sitting up with a gasp, the nightmare had been all too real and horribly prophetic. Dreaming about Ian, not an actual memory, but a reimagining of the past coloured by his own experiences, guilt and regrets. A ghost image of his uncle depicting his corruption as he had morphed from young, brash graduate with a bright future awaiting him, derailed after John's death, when he'd taken the devil's deal handed to him by Blunt as the only option to protect his nephew. Waking was abrupt and depressing, it was mid morning and cold and misty outside . He had only slept for about three hours and felt worse than he had last night. Bone tired, chilled despite the top of the range sleeping bag. He looked over his rations as his stomach rumbled. The teenager was deep in thought. Was he turning into Ian? No different from Yassen in reality. Did he want a future as a cold patriot living for the job without friends or family as he had already rejected the path to become a killer for hire? Heating up the tin of beans and sausages, he had long ago dismissed early dreams of being a premiership footballer. No longer attending school, he had no chance of careers advice or achieving anything outside of espionage. This cold and lonely holiday was the result of that decision, even Jack had not wanted him to spoil her new relationship, a normal life.

One thing he had forgotten yesterday was anything to entertain himself with. No phone, no TV, no books, comics or magazines. He wandered around the building and in the dark studio downstairs he went through a practiced routine of katas. Ian would be so proud of the weapon he had forged for MI6. The full 90 minute workout would hopefully tire him out enough to sleep undisturbed.

...

Alex woke and the moon was above the roof illuminating the room in a cold silver light. He could almost smell the food he had been dreaming of. The kitchen in San Francisco imagined in every detail, with its large range cooker and huge fridge freezer, packed with friends and the family he left in October. The room brightly decorated with a mix of kitsch Santa's and garish elves, a scatter of day of the dead mock horror and an explosion of flashing lights. Sabina reheating trays of canapés, bowls of snacks everywhere and jugs of mocktails and a huge bowl of warm mulled cider. For the first time in years the fifteen year old was crying. He had not wept for Ian, for Yassen or for Jack, when dead nor when he found her alive. Steeped against both hurt and joy for so long. His emotional distress manifesting in actual pain as he hugged himself. Like Peter Pan, the voices in his head whispering old, alone, done for. All the wrong choices. In an abandon building, two miles from the house he had grown up alone and resourceful, surviving rather than thriving nor nurtured. The truth that Jack had been a passive facilitator to Ian's neglect, then Blunt's manipulation. There was no going back to either Cheyne Walk nor the Pleasures. He had to move forward. Somehow he had to escape the trap he had found himself in. Cursed to repeat the mistakes of his father, uncle and his dad's apprentice.

Miserable and spent, Alex was blessed by a dreamless state of exhaustion until the morning.

Washing in the small sink, with rainwater heated on his tiny stove. It was the illusion of cleanliness as he still felt grimy afterwards. No chance of a real shower until the 27th and a trip to a swimming pool to have a real wash. Cooking basic rations, soup and crackers, the clear skies darkened as clouds rolled in heavy with moisture, threatened more torrential rain to keep this squatter trapped inside. He had no desire to exercise, nor to venture out for news or the chance of company. Solitude was the normal state of affairs. Watching the rain start, it matched his melancholy mood. He missed Sabina and Tom, but the door on that part of his life was shut. The bitter truth was they were safer without him. Rearranging his tins and packets by days, he had enough to last until the second. If only he could sleep until then. He smiled imagining the funky smell of unwashed teenager by then. Big decisions were for the chimes of Big Ben on midnight as 2002 became 2003. Keeping clean was a necessity not a luxury. A different job, a different life, probably far from London. No more spying, no more adventures, he was ready to face the world as an adult. His first decision was to save himself for once.


	3. Chapter 3

Alex woke to the acrid smell of cigarette smoke. In the dim illumination from downstairs as someone had switched on the lights. In the eerie shadows, a burly man with permed hair stood in the door of the office smoking. "Wakey, wakey, sleeping beauty. Not the smartest place to squat, kiddo". The man then threw a pair of handcuffs at the teenager. "Put them on. No funny business. My boss doesn't like unexpected guests."

As Alex moved like a cat as he was forced downstairs, his captor chuckled to himself as he stomped down after him, "it's your lucky day sunshine, our guest downstairs is too precious to damage so you get to be our guinea pig to loosen his lips. Otherwise you'd have never woken up to see my beautiful smile."

The battle harden spy could see three assailants and their mark taped to a metal chair. The older guy with pinched face and expensive clothes smiled cruelly at their new guest. "Welcome, pikey. This is my manor. There's a penalty for trespassing on my turf. You look like you know a thing or two about paying the piper. Nothing nice about being on the streets is there. You look clean though, not into escaping reality. Might wish you were cause this is gonna hurt."

The smoking comedian was swift as two punches hit Alex in his right then left kidney. His plans and knees took the brunt of his fall, and he puked up his dinner on the floor due to shock and pain.

With a sly look around the room, from the floor. Alex wheezed and noted the bottles of chemicals around the room and recognised each of them as 10l bottles of accelerant strategically placed, but he could not see if they were primed with a release cord, timers, a remote or a deadman's switch to one of these bozos or the guy they were about to squeeze information out of. The whole ground floor was rigged to explode, never mind just burn down. The bastards would be incinerating all evidence.

Ratty's attention was then back on the young man they were intent on bending to their will.

The teenager then took a good look at the man strapped down, who was way too calm considering he was in such a dire situation. Heads or tails: he was either a psycho or had a plan. The way his own luck was running, Alex guessed there would be no bleak Christmas never mind his planned New Years Resolutions. The only positive was they had not frisked him, yet. Once they started to make an example of him he doubted an escape would be possible even if the man with the plan got away, his plan was for him alone, no tag along kid in the wrong place at the wrong time.

The hard faced boss then pulled the pikey's hair to show the young face of their chosen victim to the spectator. "Look Dr Whizz, this kid is about ten years younger than you. All on his own. No one here to help, but you could. Tell us where the money is and we'll put the little shit out of his misery, quick and painless. Just tell Mr. Green the codes and you can discuss your momentary aberration. Your gifts are appreciated, you are a whizz, making financial problems disappear. You must understand your disobedience has consequences, not for you. You dear whizz are too valuable, but this kid. Well he's the example, just the first, maybe the only one. How many kids have to be tortured?" The man paused to let his lackey stomp on the kids left hand, breaking two of Alex's fingers. "How protracted will you make his death, whizz. We won't stop with just breaking bones. Shall I get my mates here to fuck our little virgin here? Hiding upstairs, he must be a virgin. Pretty face and such a fit body, he could be earning loads in one of my clubs. Even on the streets. Thousands just to pop his cherry. Most kids these days are fucking anything that moves by Year 10. What gives with you, lovely? In love with some unattainable beauty?"

Alex was in too much pain to talk back, never mind think his way out of this. Centre of attention, even if he took out comedy guy intent on beating him to a bloody pulp; He'd never get the cuffs off or have a chance of downing all three low rent hoods, because it was obvious all three were tooled up.

For the first time Whizz spoke."Give me my phone and I'll call Green". At this his binds were cut and a top of the line Nokia was handed over. A single button pressed for speed dial. "I take it you have not accepted the terms of my resignation. My agreement to return means my conditions need to improve. Considering I am the financial lynchpin to your conglomerate, for two years you stood back and your minions treat me like a joke. Tthere again you have always treated me like I'm part of the furniture. The only way to get you all to take me seriously was to prove just how much mischief a few keystrokes can do. Think, on this, your odious muscle man here has been stupid enough to hand me my phone. The text I just sent will have released all the ghost accounting and every penny plus normal interest and charges accrued is back under your control." The young man looked directly at Alex, his tone bitterly sarcastic, "Hurting some street kid to make me pliable and obedient is laughable, though the boy is most alluring. He's in immense pain at the moment, even with internal bleeding and crushed fingers, yet just waits silently, no snivelling or pleading for mercy. I bet his upbringing must have been as shit as mine. What do you think, dad?"


	4. Chapter 4

The young man sat back and calmly, he had never expected this bid for freedom to actually work. Always planned as an elaborate rouse with the vain hope of finding a shred of decency in the sperm donor responsible for his existence. He never blamed his mother, she had been trapped in misery as he was, she at least had loved the beast and then the Antichrist he spawned. She had escaped after suffering in silence the cancer that killed her, never seeking medical attention until she collapsed on the 23rd of August. Dying three weeks later. The thought of another Christmas, on his own with that sadistic glutton, boasting constantly of his wealth and the absolute loyalty of his minions for six days of enforced torture. The man happy to control every aspect of his only child's life, reducing his intellect and ambition to an existence as a dutiful bean counter, after achieving a PhD at Cambridge.

Those years at college had offered him a glimpse of another kind of life, one without the devil pulling everyone's puppet strings. The escape Boarding school had never been, as he had endured years of bullying exactly like home, where books and computers had been his only friends.

His father was ranting down the phone. With the hate filled confirmation of his disinheritance ringing in his ears, the ex employee did something no one dared and cut his father off by switched the phones power off. "So Ratman, Dad has every bean back in his possession. You and I are now surplus to requirements. Make no mistake this building is our funeral pyre. Dad has not one cell of compassion or forgiveness in his whole body and this is the outcome I expected. Go now and you might make it out the door. Doubtful, but a small chance is better than no chance at all."

He looked at the teenager whose face was a mask of agony. Another trapped in the web of Damien Green's need for absolute control. "Go after them. The chance is small. Then again, dad's arson team will have secured the only exit."

Concentrating on the lock of the handcuffs, his hours of practicing Houdini's tricks of the trade paid off. Alex Rider spy & escapologist was first item on a CV he was unlikely to ever write. His eyes were shut during this task, as he dare not look at the damage to his fingers, he had the feeling three of the throbbing appendages were sausagemeat beyond repair.

Gasping after the effort, lock picks still clutched in his right hand. Time was up, the silence had been broken by screams of agony from the front door as the first strategically placed drum of molten fire exploded over the heads of the three hoods who had tripped the trigger in their attempted exit. The fifteen year old found the strength to stand, Adrenalin no longer making him nauseous, he was ready to run for his life as the acrid smoke and smell of charred flesh filled the room.

He could not drag the other guy to safety, he either followed him or died, but the spy gave the other prisoner a choice. "There's another exit in the cellar, into the rail yard. Used it before. It'll be locked or boarded over, maybe even booby trapped as well. Come on. Follow me, if we don't go now we'll be asphyxiated rather than barbecued alive. I'd rather live."

The cellar was rank with rising damp, the floor squidgy with mould was dark as night. Alex remembering in exact detail where the exit was, thankful for all of Ian's games instilling perfect recall in his nephew. The two prisoners had made down the stairs and to the only other exit. In the dark, by feel alone Alex checked there was no trigger on the lock. As Alex worked his magic on the lock, with the hope he had enough time and dexterity to escape. Explosions rang out upstairs, both were blinded by the smoke and attempting to hold their breath to avoid smoke inhalation. Then Whizz remembered his phone, swiping it on and ringing 999, coughing uncontrollably in his attempt to speak, unable to get a message out, Alex shouted over him verging on the edge of hysteria, screaming out at the top of his lungs, "Fire, we're fucking trapped. South of Victoria, what used to be Zelda's Dance Academy. Station Road. My name is Alex ... Alex Rider, my mate Whizz is with me. Help us now. It was arson. Bastards left us to die. Please we're trapped. The stairs are on fire. We can't get out!"

Flames were visible along the floor boards and joists above as the door opened. Both throwing their combined body weight at the thin sheet of ply screwed over the door, it gave way as two escapees fell out into the yard. Thinking quickly Alex covered their tracks, from the mob pursuers and grabbed the phone from the floor where Whizz had dropped it, still connected with the desperate operator trying to get hold of them. Shaking stood up and threw it into the smoke filled cellar, relocked the door and then pushing the ply back into place. The fire was now an intense inferno licking across the roof.

With his right hand he grabbed Whizz and half dragged him to the cover of the rolling stock. Knowing they had to put distance between them and any likely witnesses. Needing to ride out the Adrenalin high until they both crashed with exhaustion by running as far as possible from the place of their supposed execution.


	5. Chapter 5

Ten fire units attending and a dozen police to control the traffic and crowds watching as the roof of the structure had collapsed taking its two floors with it. The burning debris crashing into the cellar below sending skyward a spectacular shower of embers and superheated gas. The bricks inside were glowing red hot as the fire was fanned by the stiff wind. The water showering the walls only preventing the fire spreading to the yard beyond and the two neighbouring properties.

It was 5am and Tulip Jones watched from the barricade closing off the main road. Her driver and body guard with her. It was the smoke in air casing her eyes to water. She was numb with the fact Alex Rider had been in that building with one Edmund Charles Howard, the Whizz he had named in the phone call to the emergency services. Her staff had traced the last known location of Howard's phone to this location. She had heard the panic in Alex's voice as he described being trapped in a burning building. The psychological exam taken in October had confirmed her youngest agent was bisexual but leaning towards homosexuality. Was the 25 year old Cambridge graduate his first boyfriend? Had they met at this squat?

There was a glaring inconsistency, the arsonist paid to set the fire in this building had gone to town with accelerant, when normally such jobs masked the professional involvement wanting the official reason to be accidental so the insurance company paid out. This fire was hot enough to obliterate all signs of human remains. They would have no bodies to bury. The fire chief had already confirmed when they arrived four minutes after the call had been placed the entire building had been alight, the front door burned off completely and the cellar door had been locked and all the exterior boarding on both the ground and cellar windows and doors had been alight. The man had stated the fact both kids had been coughing uncontrollably then suddenly been silence meant they had in all probability asphyxiated before the flames got to them.

The woman pulled out a mint from her pocket, unwrappingthr sweet and popping it into her mouth. A habit as bad as the 40 cigarettes and a day she had used to smoke. Why wasn't Alex at home in bed. The house belonged to him not the former housekeeper he cohabited with. "Larry, lets go talk to Ms Starbright to find out why Alex was in this building at 3:30 on Christmas Eve and not at home."

...

All Jack Starbright wanted was a perfect family Christmas after he awful year. She was livid she had not been included in Alex's decision to disappear off to a South America for four to six weeks. In a snit over his unexpected return she had made other arrangements for her holiday not including the kid who was meant to be working. She had expected him to turn up with some pathetic apology and inadequate. peace offering after a night with Tom, but had not chased after him when he stayed away. If he wanted to stay over with the Harris's that was fine with her.

The whole house was woken by the relentless banging on the door at six AM. A disgruntled Jack Starbright was a bit shocked to see the Managing Director of the Royal and General Bank here herself so early. Behind her were two men who looked like mean bouncers who had yet to make it to bed.

The door opened, Jack had no opportunity to complain at the early hour as the woman swept in like she owned the place. The room was decorated for Christmas, the lights thankfully turned off. Rather than shout and scream accusations, the tired civil servant wanted all the evidence gathered this morning to be wrong. "Ms Starbright, please get Alex out of bed. I fear he was playing a very distasteful practical joke this morning to get me out of bed so early."

"He's staying with Tom Harris 12A Blenheim Tower, Cresswell Road. You should call him not wake us all up."

"Alex's phone is upstairs. It has a satellite transponder installed. It has not moved location in ten days. I would guess it's in his closet. Mr Harris has been in Italy since the 12th. His mother is in Spain and Mr Harris is now living in Crouch End with a barmaid the same age as his older son." Tulip sat down on the sofa, looking haggard and emotional. Her companion had brewed tea and handed his boss a cup. She sipped the scaling hot beverage and knew she had another funeral to plan. She could delegate, but this time she would honour her friend's son. After over fifteen years she still missed John's h7mour abd charm, something Alex had inherited. "So, Alex is not here and you have no idea where he is."

Jack frowned wondering if Alex would be arrested again. She folded her arms and "Can you leave, because I have no idea where your employee is and I don't really care at the moment. Maybe you could try James Hale at Kensington Mews? Or more likely that Fox bloke who works for you?"

It was obvious Ms Starbright had invited guests for the holidays and expected the actual householder to find other arrangements. Tulip could be kind, sympathetic and understanding breaking the worst news to family, she'd had lots of practice over the years, but Jack was not even a good friend. "Alex phoned the Emergency Services this morning at 03:27. He was panicking and afraid, trapped in a derelict building two miles away, it was on fire. According to witnesses and the emergency services attending, he never left that building. When I left, there was no chance anything was being alive within 20 metres because of the intense heat. Alex left a will. I am executor. The two sculptures in the hall are yours. You may stay until the funeral. Then you have ten days to vacate. Your visa is no longer valid. Even if you marry your fiancée you will still have to leave and then reapply for residency. I would offer condolences, but not once have you attempted to contact your supposed housemate nor ask why I was here personally. Alex was a dear friend despite our past differences. I and everyone he worked with will miss him. Now I have the heartbreaking task to phone the Pleasures and the Harris Brothers to break this awful news.


	6. Chapter 6

Boxing Day and the front page of the national newspapers contained the pictures of two young men who had died early on Christmas Eve in an arson attack on the building they were squatting in. A fifteen, nearly sixteen year old boy who had been homeless since leaving his last foster placement and had been excluded from a nearby school in June for repeated truancy and the twenty five year old Cambridge Graduate loner with no friends whose mother had recently died. It was now a high profile murder investigation. Centrepoint had stated the younger victim had walked out after seeking a bed on the 22nd. The older victim had no known address or employment after gaining his doctorate in computer applications of game theory in modern banking. The tabloid's speculation that the two had been tragic lovers.

Alex sneered after perusing the trash on display at the garage in Deptford, he then stopped procrastinating and continued towards the car park where the pusher was going to charge him 50quid for twenty oxycodone tablets. His fingers had been splinted and wrapped in bandages, but the pain was getting to him after two days awake, he needed more than sleep but several blissful hours of total oblivion. He felt grim, but he'd survive. This year his only Christmas present had been the necessity of starting anew with a fellow survivor.

Alex could have gone straight to the Bank, who could get him far from any connection to Green, arranged the necessary surgery. They might have even protected his new partner in crime, the attached price was trapping another in that world. New identities needed money and careful planning. The man with the plan was back at the house they had borrowed, sleeping after trying to nurse the injured bear he was stuck cohabiting with. Alex had been in full sullen teenager mode. He had barely spoken, just acted. Nicked a first aid kit, then decided without consultation he'd had enough of sleeping in the streets so decided to house sit. Like Goldilocks, he had crashed a lovely upper middle class family home, making use of their full freezer and pantry, separate bathrooms washed off days of grime using top of the line bath products, central heating on 24/7, wearing borrowed pajamas and slippers. It was a better Christmas than he'd settled for. Whizz had watched him at his best, even one handed he could dip, shoplift, pick locks and disable alarms with ease.

...

Surviving had never factored into Dr. Howard's plans. He smiled to himself, as he woke. This was the unfamiliar feeling of hope and redemption. He was immensely proud his earned title and had always gone by his mother's surname at school and college. Giving the impression that he was a stepson, not actually the biological progeny of his mother's keeper. His dad had never called him by his Christian name, just boy when he was younger and the hated Dr Whizz after the bastard decided the son he had never acknowledged might be useful after all.

Going downstairs he saw the teenage mystery had left a note, 'gone to the chemist'. They had not exchanged names or pasts. Observing the kid had taught him, just to shut up and follow his lead. He was bright enough to deduce the kid had a peculiar skill set. One would have expected the ability to pickpockets, steal cars, pick locks in a street kid, but his current companion knew precisely which house was recently unoccupied. Calm in pain and during the escape, knowing how to evade CCTV and how to manage the crash after such an escape, sweets and Lucozade had been purchased from a small shop and drunk as soon as he had deemed them far enough away from Victoria. Very specialist knowledge when he'd disabled a modern alarm system using protocols used by the manufacturers, locksmiths and the police. The only time they'd spoken was when his rescuer had needed help splitting and bandaging his crushed hand after carefully washing the soot and grime off with sterile wipes. When he had next seen the teenager, he'd bathed, just wearing a towel and not bothered by the scars littering his torso.

Drinking tea, he looked over the damp garden and went over the fragments of evidence and could draw no logical conclusions. The facts spoke of a hard life and the son of a cruel man then understood just how much his mother had sheltered him, keeping him far from the family business and his father's cruelty when he grew up. Better to be lonely and bullied than twisted into such a foul piece of humanity. He'd been undone when his father had read his thesis and forced the unwanted progeny into the dirty business of money laundering for the world's worst. Once employed, there was no way out except in a coffin.

The genius had soon realised the trap he was in, but being trusted also meant he could skim a fraction of a percent off all money laundering transactions over two years. Money he had planned to give to charity. Money he now needed to survive. Only he had no idea how to start again with a new identity. Being officially dead was one thing, but staying alive and never crossing the path of his very well connected father, even if the mob's banker who thought he and all witnesses were dead.

The front door opened after a quick knock in the sequence agreed was safe. A newspaper was thrown on the kitchen table. "So, no mention of your bastard of a father, but they think you were on the streets too. Guess you had a shit relationship with your tutor or fellow boffins at uni."

"No, my mother told me not to trust people with details about my home situation. Always easier to stay silent than have to lie."

The teenager laughed for the first time, "preaching to the choir here. My situation is totally based on lies. My uncle lied about everything. You do get such if it. Then again you have to keep track of the bullshit working undercover, it's called spy 101. We need to plan the perfect legend to keep far from the daddy and my employers as possible"

Not wanting to know the answer, the computer expert asked anyway, "who do you work for?"

"MI6, my family business, just as shitty as your situation I'm sure. Once in you only get out by dying on the job or by becoming a pencil pusher and sends others out to die. Hence the dead parents and dead uncle. Luckily, I died and am still breathing. You helped me get out for good. Now I help you learn enough to stay living. First order of business is to get out of a Dodge fast, then I can see a doctor about my hand. We are going to Belgium or France tomorrow. By Ferry I'm afraid, I borrowed two dodgy French ID cards for us to use. I'm Guillaume and you're Jean with a very sore throat, got it. Unless you speak fluent French?"

The twenty five year old peered at his ID, and shrugged "I can speak it well enough, but my accent is typical of a school taught Brit. Sore throat would cover it though." He then read the newspaper front page and blushed bright red, "bloody hell, it says we're lovers!" Then added with full indignation, "but you're fifteen!"


	7. Chapter 7

Alex woke fully from the anaesthetic and noted Howard was asleep in the chair by his hospital bed. He then looked at his heavily bandaged left hand. He had lost the top two joints on three fingers and to the first first joint on the fourth. Bad, but it's could have been so much worse if he hadn't attempted to move his hand out of the way of that bastard's boot. He had been doubly lucky that infection had not set in. In London he had already assumed the damaged was irreparable.

He had been dreaming, a vision of a future, cosy and domestic. He looked at Howard again. The guy did not suit the name Edmund, Ed, Eddie, Ted or Teddie. Their new identities would be the potluck of availability not suitability. The past would be left behind, those identities ghosts for all concerned. That home had looked weird, not anywhere in Western Europe familiar to Alex.

The clinic in Alsace was far from skiers or tourists at this time of year, they had spun the sorry tale as students travelling during winter break, his hand injury just a nasty accident while changing a car tyre and the scissor jack slipping. In two days they planned to travel to Marseille, Howard's ill gotten gains would pay for professional documentation with believable legends to back up their new identities. They had already decided on the idea of averaging their ages, making them both about twenty.

Travelling together, they had talked, inevitably becoming close friends as they had a lot in common. Both had been damaged by lies, fear and abuse. This was a weird sort of happy ever after. Alex pulled up his partner's hand to his lips and kissed the warm skin. His prince was borderline Aspergers, he was no damsel in distress and their adventure was just beginning. There was no guilt about who he left in the past, let them mourn the image of a hero they constructed, not the real teenager who had lost what he truly desired. He would gladly trade his childhood dreams for this, a quiet life. The chance if happiness and live. If they knew and lived him, they would not begrudge his escape.

...

Hugo Vries sat with Jamie Sprintz, silent and observing the other mourners as they arrived. This was his first humanist funeral. He still wore his kippah, just to annoy his secular father with his desire to become a rabbi. His grandmother was more than happy to encourage him. There was no need to offer Kaddish for the departing soul. Meeting at the hotel, Jamie had shared the Tinkerbell postcard he'd received, posted from a Caen two days after Christmas with the message 'HAPPY NEW YEAR LOSERS, OFF TO NEVERLAND, A FRIEND'. Jamie had made his Dutch friend swear on pain of a death that this secret would only be shared by word of mouth, between the seven other alumni who were sworn blood brothers, each promising never to lie to one and other. Alex had kept that promise by letting them in on his survival against all the odds. Not one survivor of the school from hell would betray this knowledge.

Hugo only had Alex description of his best friend, as small, dark haired and a joker. He guessed the other teenager here was Tom Harris, standing with his tall, handsome brother set apart from all others. The official contingent from MI6 wore grey off the peg suits, even Mrs Jones. Each of them had their emotionless game faces firmly in place.

Hugo had already noted all the floral tributes from America, Australia, Russia and India. Then David Friend, accompanied by his sour faced wife and daughter, arrived with Alan Blunt. Followed by an actress and a pop star, both now more famous for their anti-poverty activism, both dressed elegantly in black with matching sunglasses. The last to arrive was the former president of the Russian federation, Boris Kiriyenko, who looked like he had aged decades in the last year.

First up to speak was Tom Harris. "So, I can honestly say there are a handful of real mourners here. Thanks for coming Hugo, Jamie and our families, and to all those Alex saved. He was not the patriotic hero some want to paint him as. He was a kid who preferred to play football, beating me video games and goofing off. The rest of you are hypocrites, abusers and all round dicks. Yeah, that's what Al wanted to say, but he was too polite. Now you all can bullshit about Alex, because you did not know him and are here to make yourselves feel better about failing a fifteen year old. It's all hot air and he's still dead as a Dodo. Cheers for that Jack. You suck big time for kicking him out to live on the streets." Tom then left, nor wanting to listen to well meaning excuses. Outside, he relished the rain. The point to celebrate a life cut short, but his best friend was too close to his own pain and turmoil. Guilt eating at him for not being there when Alex had needed him. Truth was Alex was meant to have been doing something spooky until January. on the job, he'd have been better off than here.

He started at the dark haired German boy sat next to him and put a finger to his lips before handing over a laminated postcard. He read the words in a familiar scrawl and the shock and joy were almost overwhelming for the Londoner. Jamie Sprintz then whispered softly, "Our mutual friend could not contact you directly because MI6 watch you and the Pleasure's closely. You have to be paranoid to the max to get that about Al's situation. He's out now. Gone where we can't follow. Just pray he's happy and healthy. Now live your life like each day is the last. He told all of us at that school the best revenge is living well. He is going to do just that. Happy ending, but only we can know. Don't tell your brother, just say I gave you a pep talk. Live well, I bet he will let us know more eventually, once he's safe and secure. Nice speech by the way. Go look after the school secretary weeping all over your bro now. He looks totally uncomfortable and in need of recusing."


	8. Chapter 8

Tom Harris at 18, after two and a half years of hard work, was a professional footballer, though not playing for any decent team in London or the UK, but in Germany for Fortuna Düsseldorf as a defender. The offer had been a bolt from the blue after two years at Fulham under 18 squad, mostly sat in the bench as a reserve. It had surprised everyone at Brookland when he had turned down a place at Watford under 21 second squad. This was way better, playing for the main team in the starting lineup, even if the team was crawling it's way up from scrapping the fourth tier two seasons ago. The team was now sponsored by a local bond trading company, owned by Dieter Sprintz. There to meet and greet him was a tall dark haired Jamie Sprintz with his driver bodyguard waiting at the airport, the sign in his hand said "Tom Thumb Harris". His nickname from being the titch on the Brookland Football Team, only known to other team members.

"Good to see you, Tom. We are sharing an apartment. I am secretary at the club. You are my first signing. We have traditionally been a local team, but lately all our apprentices chose other clubs rather than stay here. I plan to be out of Regionalliga Nordic in three maybe four years. It's going to be tough. There is a culture of complacency and mediocrity in place. Act like losers you will be losers."

Tom was silent until he got in the car and they left the airport terminal car park. "So, heard from our friend lately?"

"l have a new online gaming partner, beats me every time playing either Fifa, Grand Theft Auto or Medal of Honor. We have a fantasy football game going, it's a postman's holiday but a good way to plan ahead. He's a fellow German born in the East, Karl Marx Stadt. Orphan and serial runaway from several foster placements. Fabian Berg, 23 and a park ranger. He's invited me over in November, you should join us gaming, he's the sneakiest bastard and plays to win always."

"Cool." After an age apart, Tom would get to play his own supercool spy game of pretending not to know Fabian, when he was his BFF. They'd have to keep their distance, a friend through Jamie Sprintz as he had the sneaky suspicion that MI6 would always have him under low level surveillance.

...

Ben Daniel's had been undercover for two years, playing the part of none to bright security at the home of The Demon Damian Green. His role was simply as drop-man, handler and backup for the guys doing the real dirty work. There were two Fraud Squad officers undercover. Margo was the bastard's secretary and Dean was the guy's computer hacker. They had pieced together a decent case in a joint operation with Interpol and the FBI. The tally so far was several million payable to any EU country, Switzerland and the US in unpaid tax even if they could not get the money laundering and insider trading charges to stick. The case built purely on data and transaction history. No need to endanger witnesses or lose the case over retracted testimony.

The murder charge was however unprovable, despite both MI5 and Special Branch trying to build a case. They'd found the arsonist already dead by a decent facsimile of suicide. No actual witnesses and all close to Green were too frightened to pin any blame knowing to do so signed their own death warrant or worse lose their families as a deterrent from a man who'd burnt his own son to death.

Even, so the ex Special Forces soldier enjoyed undercover work. His ambition was to train for more specialised missions, known as wet work. Sometimes the bad guys could not be tried in a court of law. The brutal end of keeping the world safe was the legendary double O status, glamorised by Ian Fleming, but state sanctioned murder was the dirtiest black ops out there. Grim and resolute, needed to keep kids like Alex far from the firing line, it was now Ben's chosen career goal. The life expectancy considerably shorter than even agents at the Bank. He'd be lucky to make five years in the field. Alex had not even made it to Sixth Form, never mind college. Chances were he'd fail the psychological assessment, it was meant to be a real doozy.

...

Jack Starbright had belatedly tried to heal the breech with her parents, but they still refused any contact. The reward money from the grateful parents of the rescued school kids was a distant memory. Her fiancée was history as well after the good times ceased to be a regular occurrence. At 35, she had to find regular work; grateful she had actually finished her undergraduate and postgraduate degrees. Legal compliance work for corporate insurance was bone dry dull, repetitive and deathly boring. She had an eye for detail and had already been promoted from temp to wage slave driver crushing the hopes and dreams of fresh graduates. She'd arrived home after a late night at the office, because she had given up on dating after Mr Perfect just proved to be another user. Working late was better than hours spent eating reheated meals in her compact apartment, which was dirty and untidy. She watched reruns on TV and ate slightly overheated chow mien. She decided to take the offered transfer to the Chicago office, as there was nothing to keep her in Baltimore.

Sipping a glass of chilled wine, Jack mulled over the reasons for her estrangement from her family, who seemed to think she had been to blame for Alex's unfortunate demise. He chose to squat in an abandoned building, end of story. The only person to blame was Alex himself, why couldn't her parents to be grasp that. He'd practically brought himself up, considering he'd cleaned the house in Chelsea and done all the laundry since she'd been hired by Ian. All she'd done was babysit and reheat food or make sandwiches. It wasn't like she'd been anything official, just staff, not any kind of parent, as if. She'd liked Henry but his kids lived with their mom 90% of the time. Like Alex, the two potential step kids had been fun up to a point. She just as no interest in playing mom to anyone. The only reason she'd taken the job from Ian Rider in the first place was the fact she'd empathised about the poor, young single guy being dumped with his brother's kid. Then she'd met the godfather, that had made sense, Ash had been a grade A sleaze.


End file.
